Chapter 10
Ada
My heart lurches like I just racked a line of Thrasher’s fake coke.
I’m not scared. Just the opposite. Melodies are ringing through my mind like church bells.
Here is justice. A sense of order. A higher power.
Jake’s furious expression is so sexy it hurts.
A man big enough to break through whatever dank spell Thrasher’s tractor beamed me into.
He’s my white knight appearing over the hill at daybreak.
Still, I have a reputation to uphold. I force my face into a look of disinterest. “This is becoming quite the pattern, champ.”
He stops in front of me, arms folded, jaw tight. He takes in my dress, lipstick, and cleavage and a muscle in his cheek spasms. “Did you tell Thrasher Thompson he can eat you out if he buys you ice cream?”
Lord, will you ever make anything easy for me?
“What makes you say that?”
His scowl intensifies. “Because he’s in our golf chat telling everyone he’s gonna eat ice cream out of Ada Renaldo’s pussy.”
God, what a pig.
“That’s so nice of him. I hope he’s good at it.”
Jake looks like he might explode. “Thought you didn’t like that?”
“Ice cream?”
“Random guys going down on you?”
I inspect my lavender nails. “Yeah… I actually plan on lying to a bunch of dudes this week. Hang on, you’re in a group chat about golf?”
He ignores me, sliding into the seat across from mine without asking. “So, what? You’re just gonna fuck Thrasher, are you?”
“Well, I do love ice cream…” I glance around for Davis. He was recruited specifically to stop things like this.
“Looking for your bodyguard?” Jake snarls.
“No...” I spot Davis in the far corner of the bar, talking to Cece. She’s got a hand on his bicep, and I’m screwed. He wouldn’t notice Desert Storm kicking off behind him right now, let alone come save me.
I glance at Jake, who smiles humorlessly back at me. “Guess your friend’s too busy to bail you out this time, Renaldo. You’ll just have to deal with me on your own.”
God, he’s sexy when he’s angry. His cheekbones are sharp enough to bend the light filtering down from Cece’s tiny bar lamps. I need to focus. “And what am I dealing with exactly?”
“Don’t fuck around. You want Thrasher? That’s a serious thing?”
I roll my eyes. “We’re not married, Jake.”
“More’s the fuckin’ pity.”
My heart pulses. Stupid traitorous organ. “You’ve got quite the poetic streak for a rugby player. Do you read or something?”
He glares at me. “Thompson’s a dickhead. And a perv. He’ll try to fuck your feet.”
I tilt my head, as though vaguely tempted by this prospect, and Jake swears under his breath.
“If that’s what you’re into, I’ll fuck your feet.”
His offer is so irritably sincere, I can’t help laughing. After all my fake giggles, it’s a relief to feel actual joy. Relief that quickly turns to iced water down my back.
Jake would do anything I wanted in bed, but that doesn’t mean I can let him. After all, he’s the one who told everybody we hooked up. Probably in his crusty little golf chat.
“Fuck whatever appendage you want as long as it doesn’t belong to me,” I tell Jake. “I’ll try and do the same, ’kay?”
He half-turns as though appealing to some invisible jury. “Thrasher posted about getting you ice cream. Said that’s all it takes to be with you, and believe me, I’m cleaning up his language.”
Jesus Christ. At this rate, I’m going to need revenge for my fucking revenge. “Well, I’d say that’s case closed, Detective. Turns out I do fuck for ice cream.”
Jake faces me fully, his dark grey gaze drilling into mine. “You don’t want him.”
“No.” Curse his hot-guy hypnosis...
“But you’re still gonna go home with him? After he talked about you like that?”
His naked hypocrisy jolts me back into my brain. “Here’s a better question: why are you in a group chat where men say disgusting things with impunity?”
His mouth twitches, a deadly tell. I jam a crowbar in the crack.
“Did you call Thrasher out? Leave the chat? Start a discourse on the corrosive effects of casual misogyny?”
A flush creeps across his chiselled face. “We’re not talking about me.”
“I am. I wanna know where you found the nerve to come here swinging your dick around like you’re any better than Thrasher.”
“What? I’d never—”
“How does he know we slept together, Jake? Because the only reason he came to see me is because he heard Flute-Slut’s spreading it around.”
Jake glares at Stabbie’s entrance like he’s hoping Thrasher is about to walk through it. “That motherf—”
“So, you admit you told him we fucked?”
“I didn’t say shit,” he snarls at the door. “The night we—”
“Fucked?”
“Hooked up. After you left, I—”
“Joined your comrades at the strippers?”
“Had some drinks in the pool by myself,” he says, returning his gaze to mine. “Then the boys came back and asked how it went with you.”
“And you told them you fucked me?”
“No. They could just tell.”
I raise a brow. “Oh, really? Did you have that special glow?”
“No, but I was wasted and moody, and you gave me a…”
He raises a hand to his neck, and I remember biting him hard there in the Uber. But I can’t let myself be sidetracked by flashbacks.
“So, what?” I ask Jake. “You didn’t tell them we fucked, you just wordlessly confirmed it, then let your mates hold a panel discussion on how much I love cock and whether I’d ride theirs too?”
“Jesus, Ada—”
“Just answer the question.”
“No. I told them to shut the fuck up about you if they knew what’s good for them.”
“So how did Thrasher hear I’m a ‘real freak’?”
“I don’t know! Probably because of the…” He gestures furiously at the side of his neck. “I’ll end the lot of them. Jealous, immature, little—”
“So, you don’t think I’m a freak, huh? I’m just some random girl you poked on a stag weekend?”
“No. You’re the best fuck I ever had, but I’m not gonna—” He cuts himself off, jabs two fingers in my direction. “Quit messing with me, Renaldo. I’m at my limit.”
Another laugh creeps up my throat. He’s the funny kind of mad, the kind that makes me want to push harder.
It’s an insight into how we’d argue as a couple, and it’s a bad one because I’m finding him extremely cute right now.
And I believe him about not telling anyone about us. He’s not that kind of guy.
So, what kind is he? a slippery voice enquires.
I shove it away. Jake Graves-Holland isn’t the sheriff from Deadwood, or Sam from Holes, and he’s definitely not Pukekohe-brand Aragorn. Actually, he’s exactly Pukekohe-brand Aragorn. He sucks.
“I’m not messing with you, Graves-Holland.” I frown; it’s hard to sass someone with a double-barreled last name.
“Yes, you are, just like you’re dick-teasing half the school for some fucking reason.”
“Moi?” I press my fingertips to my cleavage. “How very dare you?”
The muscle in his jaw goes haywire. “I told you to stop pissing me off. Why’d you keep posting like you work here?”
“I do work here.”
“Really? Because, according to Cece, you just drink, vape, and bitch.”
Goddammit Cece. Clearly, an alliance has formed between my best friend and this extremely inconvenient man.
I peer around Jake and find Cece still talking to Davis.
Distracting Davis. It clicks. She didn’t ‘go missing’ while I was drinking with Thrasher, nor fail to come to my rescue.
Instead, the slippery bitch called in heavy artillery.
I stare daggers at the side of her Judas face.
Et tu, Cecelia?
“While we’re on the subject of things I’m not supposed to know,” Jake says, pulling my attention back to him. “You made out like you’re still living in Europe, but you’ve been crashing here for months, haven’t you?”
I frown. “Was I supposed to tell you or something?”
“Yes. I thought you were leaving.”
“And that’s my problem… How?”
For a second, I think he’s going to storm out, but he leans in closer. The scent of his peppery cologne hits, and my pussy flutters like it’s got its own heartbeat.
“Hi,” I say, batting my lashes at him. “Buy you a drink?”
Jake doesn’t smile. “You can tell me why a girl who bailed before graduation without saying goodbye to anyone wants to show up for a big, fuck-off reunion. Then you can tell me how that fits into a lowlife cunt like Thrasher Thompson thinking he’s got a shot with her.”
How? How is Jake Graves-Holland piecing together my revenge blueprint? It can’t be through Cece; she doesn’t know the details, and Davis wouldn’t snitch. I scramble for an alibi, a truth I can fold into my lies like egg whites into soufflé.
“Cece,” I announce. “She wants Will, and I’m going to the reunion to help her land him.”
“Will Sharpe?”
“The very same.”
Jake squints at me. “But he’s a fuckwit.”
Hearing that makes me want to lunge across the table and kiss him with everything I have. I resist and re-examine my nails instead. “Yes, but, as a suspected sex criminal once quipped, ‘The heart wants what it wants.’”
“Christ, Cece…”
“I know,” I sigh. “It turns out some people really romanticise former classmates even when it’s completely unfounded, and they should probably just let it the fuck go.”
Jake’s squint sharpens to a glare. “Helping Cece smash Will doesn’t explain why you’re posting softcore.”
“You wish. I should start an OnlyFans. You’d be my biggest subscriber.”
“If you were in some of the chats I’m in, you’d know that’s not true,” Jake says through clenched teeth.
Interesting. I tuck the intel into my back pocket. “Maybe it’s just fun to be the girl everyone wants for once.”
“I swear to God, Renaldo—”
“Why are you in so many scumbag chats, anyway? I’m not in any scumbag chats. Cece’s not in any scumbag chats. Davis—”
“Don’t you talk to me about him.”
“Oh, we are not doing that,” I say, my tone sharpening. “I’ve played along with your little interrogation so far, Detective, but just to be crystal clear, I’ll do whatever the fuck I want. And that softcore? It’s to promote Stabbies. Afterglow. Whatever.”
The flickering muscle in his jaw is back. “Right.”